


Daughter

by iHarp



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Next Generation, One Shot, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10489140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iHarp/pseuds/iHarp
Summary: Elaina de Rolo, the second child of Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III and Lady Vex'ahlia, doesn't feel like she's much of anything. Much less like either of her legendary parents. She feels like such a black sheep, but little does she know that she's much more like both of them than she'll ever realize.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm usually not a fan of making original characters that fit directly into the storyline of canon characters, but this was a plot bunny that struck me late in the night after hearing a beautiful song by Sleeping At Last (entitled "Daughter," and it's where the lyrics in this work originate). I have a lot of feels about all the ships in this show, honestly. I've never posted or even written a Critical Role fanfic before (it's been YEARS since I've uploaded anything to AO3), so please don't flame! Constructive criticism is always welcome, though.
> 
> This is just a one-shot. I doubt I'll turn it into a full-blown fanfiction, but hey! You never know. Thank you so much for reading!

_if only you knew..._

She wishes that she could be like her mother. Strong, elegant, beautiful. Instead she’s a little clumsy, can hardly lift anything heavier than a book, and pretty only to some with her fair skin, brown hair, dark eyes. She wishes that she could string one of the three bows she’s been given over the years, but she’s never been able to fire a single one. At least, she’s never fired one and hit a target. She wishes she could carry herself with the poise and grace of a confident woman, but she supposes she’s just never had the confidence to carry herself with much poise or grace at all.

She wishes that she could be like her father. Ingenious, eloquent, slight. She wishes that she could make things like he does, but she’s never had the creating mind and usually just ends up burning herself or others in the forge. She’s smart, she supposes, but only because she loves books, but she’s nowhere near as clever or as resourceful as he. She wishes that she could look at people the way he does, tell what they’re offering and make firm decisions, but she’s been fooled more times than she can count, and she really isn’t very good at reading people at all.

She’s not like them. She wishes that she was, and it hurts to know that she probably never will be.

_the sunlight shines a little brighter, the weight of the world’s a little lighter,_

She isn’t like the rest of her family, either. She isn’t like mysterious Uncle Vax, who’s clever and funny while still carrying some air of seriousness about him. She isn’t like her legendary Aunt Keyleth, who for all her smiles and awkward fumbling, is still a strong leader that everyone respects. She isn’t like her twin cousins, who play pranks and have charming smiles. She isn’t the wonderful cleric that Auntie Pike is, nor is she anywhere near as magnificent a fighter as Uncle Grog.

She most certainly isn’t like her brother Frederick, who carries himself with all the dignity of a sphinx, who travels around with her parents as an ambassador-in-training, a dignitary to spread Whitestone’s renown throughout Tal’Dorei. No, she isn’t like him at all. If she were, she might actually be able to make her family proud every once in a while.

When she looks in the mirror, she’s just Elaina de Rolo, the second child of Vex’ahlia and Percival, whose only skills are reading and writing and staying out of the way.

_the stars lean in a little closer, all because of you._

She’s only been in three places her entire life.

She was actually born in Zephra, because her mother says she was born over a month early and she’d been visiting her brother in his home amongst the Air Ashari. Since, Elaina has made periodic visits with her mother and father and brother. She’s familiar with the mountains, the lashing winds, and sitting on lush grasses as druids whisk through the sky above. She loves the quiet there, the simplicity of it all, and she envies her cousins and their upbringing in the sprawling village.

She’s been to Emon, the massive city of bustling trade and splendor, a prop to her family’s occasional political ambassador visits. She knows the expansive streets, the towering buildings, and she likes it there in the city. It’s a little too busy for her, truthfully, and the huge amount of people in such close quarters has always made her a little nervous.

But her home is in Whitestone. She’s spent most of her life here, amongst the safe castle walls and the expanse of her mother’s house. She’s perused the library more times than she can count, read almost every single book she could get her hands on. She knows the streets and the shops and every nook and cranny to explore. She loves her home, loves it dearly, and it makes her proud to say she’s from the city that once belonged solely to the de Rolo’s. But it’s all she’s ever known. And at this point, it feels like it’s _all_ she’ll ever know.

_I want to see you lift your chin a little higher, open your eyes a little wider,_

That should change. The thought comes to her in the night, a passing fancy, as she watches her mother, father, and brother leave again from the castle to head for Emon for another ambassadorial visit. She should have gone with them, they’d given her the choice, but Elaina always so easily gets bored on those trips. She’s made them before, and mostly it only ends up bothering her that they’re mostly for her brother’s benefit more than anything else.

She should get out more. She knows this. By her age, her mother had already lived amongst the forests and had battled bandits. Her father had undergone torture and fled his home in the wake of the attack of the Briarwoods. Even her aunt Cassandra had experienced the same, caught in her own attempt to flee. Elaina’s highly aware of just how… inexperienced and naive she is. And while her parents say it’s a blessing that she’s had such a peaceful life, it doesn’t feel that way.

It’s a thought she shouldn’t have, so she instinctually shoves it down. She can’t leave home. Not on her own, at least. Elaina can only imagine how panicked her parents would be if she just up and left. They generally tend to respect her decisions, but she really doesn’t know if they’d want her to make this one.

So she ignores it. It’s probably better that way.

_speak your mind a little louder, because you are royalty._

It’s a thought that doesn’t leave her alone, though, it becomes an itch that she can’t scratch. Reading her favorite adventure stories in the library doesn’t help; if anything, it makes it worse. Walking around the streets and stores of Whitestone doesn’t help either, because all she sees are the storefronts advertising potions and items that she’s only heard her parents tell stories of. At some point, she buys two healing potions, even though she doesn’t know why.

A few days pass, and she thinks. She silently argues. She reads. She researches. There’s a slight fever to her, an urgency she hasn’t felt before, and bit by bit, Elaina can feel her resolve chip away.

It doesn’t make much sense, really, because she likes to think that she’s always been at least a little practical. She doesn’t know where she’d go, she doesn’t know who she’d find. Even her parents, as incredible as they are, had a party with them. They had her aunts and uncles, they were Vox Machina. She’s just Elaina. She can’t fire a bow. She can’t make weapons. She doesn’t think she’d be a good survivalist, and she knows that she probably wouldn’t hold up in a fight. Wandering out on her own means that she’d more than likely be signing her own death sentence.

But still, she can’t shake that feeling.

_this is your kingdom, this is your crown, this is your story,_

She doesn’t know when she makes the decision, it just kind of happens. She’s sitting outside on one of the many balconies of the castle, looking out over Whitestone as she’s wont to do when she’s thinking or reading. There’s a book in her lap, a book of geography, and there’s a burning longing somewhere in her torso, seeing the artists’ renderings of places like Draconia and Ank’Harel.

On one of the pictures, a rendering of the Cerulean Palace, there’s a scribbling along the edge of the page. Elaina frowns. She’s sure she’s picked up this book a thousand times, and she’s never seen writing in any of them before. It’s her father’s handwriting, she recognizes the sharp curves and embellished swirl of letters, etched in a language that only she and he know:

_You’d love it._

The words stir a sudden burst of energy, energy she never knew she had. When had he written this? Perhaps he’d noticed her reading this a few weeks ago, she thinks that’s the last time she picked this particular tome up. The message gives her hope. Maybe her parents wouldn’t frown on this as much as she’d initially thought.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to start planning.

_this is your moment, don’t look down._

This is so ridiculous.

She stares at all of her belongings spread out across her bedspread and the floor of her room, and has a brief moment of clarity. She can’t believe she’s doing this, it’s foolhardy, isn’t it? The thought of venturing out into the world when most of what she owns are books and dresses and riding clothes is rather silly, and she knows that she should probably spend at least several more months trying to bolster what little skills she has. That much is obvious as she glances across the expanse of her room.

A part of her loves the irrationality of it all, though, she’s horrified to learn. There’s something thrilling about it, something reckless, and it makes her feel alive. It makes her want to run away into the woods and stay safe and curled up under mountains of blankets all at the same time. Her heart beats a little quicker, her reflexes become a little sharper. She wants to experience more of this. She wants to explore the world.

She assures herself by remembering some things will always be accounted for. She can rest assured that her pockets will always be padded with gold, that she will never want for things of a material nature. She knows that she’ll have some of her books, guides to help her through the moments when she’s unsure. She’ll have the love of her family within her always, advice and support whenever she may need it. It may not be so bad, venturing out on her own. Despite the fact that she’s vastly unprepared, for the first time she’s convinced that she can do this.

She can carve her own path. She will.

_you’re ready, born ready, and all you gotta do is put one foot in front of you._

She ties the pack shut and admires her handiwork. A few more visits to shops around Whitestone have secured her a Bag of Holding of her very own, a few more interesting potions that may be of some use, and a certain tome that has the beginnings of spell-learning in its texts. She’s packed relatively light, with only a few changes of clothes and a light set of leather armor that she’s also procured. There’s a dagger on her belt, and she’s packed one of her mother’s bows for sentimental reasons. She has books and money and food and a few waterskins (and a few bottles of wine that hopefully her parents won’t realize she’s stolen from the cellars).

She hasn’t told anyone else in the castle of her plans. It’s probably a foolish, selfish move, but she finds that she would rather this be a venture that is purely her own. Plus, she’s fairly sure that one conversation with someone else might be enough to dissuade her from going if they disagree. It’s better to keep this to herself. Hopefully, her parents will understand.

The time is coming, and she has to pick a day to leave. A part of her wants to put it off, a part of her doesn’t want to go, but there’s such an overwhelming sense of _rightness_ about all of this, she makes the decision that she’ll leave in the morning.

She’s ready.

_our ceiling is your floor, and all you gotta do is put one foot in front of you._

The sun’s rays stretch above the Alabaster Sierra’s, slowly illuminating sleepy Whitestone with their warmth as a singular figure strides through the empty streets towards the southern entrance to the city. Her footsteps are oddly confident, and there’s a strong steeled light in her dark eyes as every stride carries her closer to adventure. Elaina de Rolo is making her departure.

She passes the Sun Tree, and pauses.

Her gaze sweeps back up to the castle that’s been her home for her entire life, and it’s a bittersweet view to see the sunrise striking the side of the porcelain stone. She could turn around and go back, but she knows that she won’t. Her only path is forward. She’ll be back, she knows, because she could never say goodbye to this place for good. She loves it too much, loves the people that live here with all her heart. But her place is elsewhere, and she has to find it.

A smile cracks across her face before she turns and continues on her way. She left a note on her pillow back in the castle. They’ll understand.

Her feet carry her through the familiar streets, and she pauses but one more time at the edge of town, where the cobblestone becomes the hardened dirt path leading into the forest. But she doesn’t pause for long. She simply closes her eyes, deeply breathes in the chilly fresh air of northern Tal’Dorei, feels the beginning of dawn’s light touch her shoulders, and takes a single step forward. She doesn’t know where this path will take her, she doesn’t know what adventures await her out in the world. All she knows is that she’s going to find out, one way or the other.

Her own campaign is about to begin.

_if only you knew._


End file.
